


Of Love and Ashes

by SherlockxofxBakerSt



Series: After the End Comes Healing [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Autism Spectrum, Autistic Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has Chronic Pain (Good Omens), Aziraphale Is Trying (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has an Anxiety Disorder (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley is also trying, Hastur Being an Asshole (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, I would count it as minor?, M/M, Minor Violence, No Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:41:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29071197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockxofxBakerSt/pseuds/SherlockxofxBakerSt
Summary: Dust motes, barely visible, drifted around the leaves, dull in the dreary light that seeped through the windows. A typical day in London, though Aziraphale could sense cooler, and even damper, air coming soon, even without reading the newspaper. If the stiff ache in his knee was anything to go by, it was going to be a miserable next few days, especially for his cold-blooded companion. It was good that Crowley had decided on a day out for mischief before it was too uncomfortable for him. Though, the angel secretly wondered if the demon had his own internal barometre as it were. Surely, if his knee still ached from the old War, then Crowley’s Fall must have left its own tenderness. Not that he dared to pry.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: After the End Comes Healing [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2108397
Comments: 10
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Four months after the supposed end of the world, an angel and a demon had solidly settled into their routine. Nights of snuggling on the sofa for a kip and a lovely place to read, seasoned with both laughs and tears; their off-tempo dance, practiced over millennia, had at last fallen into proper step. Allowed to touch, allowed to allow. Neither chained by cold eyes nor the fear of the other’s extinction if they moved an inch too close. It was still a slow dance, at least to the human eye, but an even one, where too much could still sting once-bound, chaffed wrists and burnt fingers. However, scabs were beginning to form.

Aziraphale ran his index finger over an old tome that he had just placed in its new location, the worn leather brittle and well-loved. It could do with a good rebinding soon. At least the leaves were still strongly bound, safe and preserved. It would certainly survive a move.

It was a strange feeling, the angel mused, a humbling, human feeling: there was so much now, spread before he and Crowley, and, yet, it was frightening. In some ways, the anxieties of before had fallen into the after. That thought fixed the angel to the spot. Not particularly out of distress, mind you, but because all of his focus was on the sensation in his chest that had struck anew.

Aziraphale, at least, had some of the answers he needed for himself. Even if he was not a human, or even a ‘he’ (or ‘she’, or anything really) in more than just preference, there was comfort in being able to see something of yourself in others, in an answer, in a word that gave a sense of understanding and community rather than ostracisation.

Since his meltdown in the park all those weeks ago, he had even explained to a barista that he was autistic after a bout of anxious indecision had left him floundering to answer the question of what drink he wanted. He was still not sure that the stuttering mess that he had been had made the correct decision after making everyone wait for his silly self. His mind also still looped back to the embarrassing situation even weeks later, if he allowed it. The strange thing had a habit of doing that. There were embarrassing things from millennia ago that still came back to haunt him some days.

Crowley, too, seemed happier as weeks turned into months. At least, in part. One cannot spend the night with someone without noting their movements. So, with the demon napping beside him, and he himself having no desire to sleep, he was privy to every whimpered word and twitch of dreaming limbs. All the hidden tears that his poor dear thought that he had successfully kept from Aziraphale. Though, the worst was the way his face contorted, as if in pain, just before he jolted awake.

Sighing at the memory of Crowley’s particularly bad night only hours ago, he reached out to run his fingers over the waxy, verdant leaves of the largest plant that had found its way into the bookshop. Not new plants, freshly bought, but ones the angel had instantly recognised from Crowley’s all-but-abandoned flat.

“You’re looking so much better today, my dear,” the angel praised, giving the plant a warm, if tired smile. The poor thing had looked so sullen from Crowley’s infrequent visits to the flat, but now it looked ever so comfy here.

Dust motes, barely visible, drifted around the leaves, dull in the dreary light that seeped through the windows. A typical day in London, though Aziraphale could sense cooler, and even damper, air coming soon, even without reading the newspaper. If the stiff ache in his knee was anything to go by, it was going to be a miserable next few days, especially for his cold-blooded companion. It was good that Crowley had decided on a day out for mischief before it was too uncomfortable for him. Though, the angel secretly wondered if the demon had his own internal barometre as it were. Surely, if his knee still ached from the old War, then Crowley’s Fall must have left its own tenderness. Not that he dared to pry.

Perhaps, when the dreary weather properly set in, Crowley could show him that “Golden Ladies” show that he was so fond of, or maybe even that agent series, even if that in particular sounded too silly for Aziraphale’s tastes. The thought bought his work to a halt once more, three books now in hand. He’d not even seen Crowley use a radio since returning from Heaven. The demon hadn’t been in his flat long enough to marathon his favourite films under the ruse of propagating sloth. Surely, that was something the angel should be concerned about, shouldn’t it? After all, Crowley did love his bebop, but even the gramophone had barely been touched, and he knew the demon had amassed a good deal of what he thought of as the very best vinyl.

“So many routes,” Aziraphale mumbled to himself, setting the books on a nearby small table to worry his hands over one another. The phrase tumbled off of his tongue a few more times, looping in his head, before a quick glance towards the ceiling quieted him. Guiltily, his hands moved behind his back, shaking his head in an attempt to rid himself of the words. He knew they weren’t watching, logically speaking, but he wasn’t sure if he was ever going to be able to look up without that feeling that he was perpetually doing something wrong. His eyes glanced towards where the rug hid his now deactivated teleportation portal before forcing them to gaze back towards the task at hand.

He still hadn’t brought up the idea of moving, mostly because it never felt like the right time. Though he had to admit to himself (he _was_ doing better in that area) that he, in part, hoped that they might simply, not forget, but maybe learn to be fully comfortable here, in what the angel still rather thought of as his home. Their nest. Crowley’s moving of the plants had, inadvertently, strengthened that instinctive idea. But the way Crowley glanced around the room after a nightmare, as if he could still see it burning….

The angel had made some more serious effort to make the move easier, under the guise of spring cleaning. The clutter of papers that had remained after the destruction of Heaven’s missives were gone or in their proper place. He made a mental list of his favourite pieces of furniture and trinkets he did not want to part with. Making it easier was what he had been trying to do all morning, once Crowley left for the day. The logic was that he could rearrange his collection, put those he couldn’t leave fathom leaving behind in a certain spot. Easy to pack, the decisions already made outside of the stress of moving. Or, rather, that had been the hope.

How can one pick their favourites out of centuries’ worth of treasure? Of knowledge? He knew he was rather like a hoarding dragon, miserly in his collection of the written word. There were obvious books to keep by his side, like a portfolio of Hamlet given to him by his demon. His best books of prophecies must come too.

Taking a breath, deep and large enough for his spine to release a series of cracks in protest, Aziraphale grabbed the book pile once more, moving them towards the less desired section. His knee gave a resounding pop of unhappiness, making the angel wince and sigh in irritation. “That discorporation didn’t do that knee any good, old boy,” he grumbled to himself before continuing on with his work. Hopefully, the exercise would do it good.

It did not. At all. On the contrary, by the next hour or so, the dull throb was leeching its way up from Aziraphale’s knee, culminating where thigh met the pelvis bone. When he scrubbed his palm over the offending limb for the third time in a half an hour, the angel tutted, rolling his eyes in the primmest way possible. This was starting to get distracting.

It was bad enough when the limp was just one more thing to worry about in Heaven, one more sign of softness, even if the wound had been received in defense of Heaven before time even began. Now, it was just one more thing to remind him of Heaven, of how it had been used against him the times he had been more than verbally reprimanded. His hand moved back to his knee at the thought, thumb running over the beginning of the jagged scar, just tangible through his slacks. “Lean, mean fighting machine indeed,” he huffed.

Still, it wouldn’t do to dwell on the matter now. He had a task, and the idea of not completing it only made to frustrate him more. It absolutely had to get done for Crowley; a little discomfort changed nothing. Teeth set on edge, Aziraphale did his best to throw his entire self into his work, the world outside little more than a jumble of disjointed sounds.

It wasn’t long before lifting became too much. Even if he was certainly capable of lifting quite a bit more than the typical human of his stature and form, his knee simply wasn’t having it. Any extra weight made the very muscle of his limb threaten to give out altogether, and the last thing he needed was to damage anything.

The angel snapped a pile of books down onto a table harder than he ever would without a temper, breathing through his nose in an attempt to calm himself. He knew he was working himself up, but, frankly, he didn’t care. It was ridiculous that he could do nothing to heal himself, but he knew that even an attempt to coax his body into lessening the swelling would be useless. Such is a wound given by an infernal blade.

“This is pathetic,” he hissed petulantly.

He had to do something with his hands, but he could only clasp them together, derisible fear keeping him from wringing them. As if they were going to be slapped if he dared to move them in an abnormal way. Another throb through his leg sent his eyes glancing upwards; the pain made it so much easier for his mind to believe that he was still being watched, monitored for weakness. Of course, he would be seen as wanting, he always had been.

“Too many routes,” the angel mumbled to himself again, the phrase coming back to his thoughts once more. There were less outcomes if he finished, the positive outweighing the negative. But there was so much. If he finished the books, he needed to continue with the furniture. If he got that done, he needed to tell Crowley. If Crowley accepted, the previous steps make the future easier. However, he couldn’t finish the books today, and there was so much furniture, so many rooms, and it wouldn’t do to go out of order. “Too many, too many.” It took everything not to grab at his hair as the angel realised that he had rooted himself to a spot once more.

Gritting his teeth with a hiss more usual for Crowley, Aziraphale summoned a broom with a flick of his wrist, knowing that the sound of his old hoover would only set him off further. The demon would not find him stuck in his loop of thoughts again, too frightened and overwhelmed to move.

The vibrations of broom bristles against rug fibres tingled in his fingers, the scraping sound grating, but the angel did not allow himself to stop.

Tears slowly burred his vision, unfallen, and the sweeping motion did nothing for his aching leg. However, Aziraphale was nothing if not stubborn. Every bit of it was making the tingling, sparking in the nerves worse. However, despite his knowledge, his better understanding of himself, there was still that voice in the back of his skull, in his very essence, that claimed that he should be better. Stronger. And, perhaps, he deserved it for not being enough. The broom creaked under the strength of his inhuman grip, the bristles bending under the abuse of being pressed hard against the floor.

A loud bang and the sharp jingle of the doorbell made Aziraphale remember to breathe, the head of the broom lifted off of the ground as if the wooden stick would be any defense against anything more than a human. All of his frustration suddenly found a focus, and if it were a human, sneaking in out of hours, they would be lucky to leave the shop without a broom-shaped welt for their troubles.

However, a flash of red and black between bookcases twisted the last bit of Aziraphale’s patience. “ _Crowley_!” he hissed, his hands throwing the broom to the side before curling at his side. It was rather too early for even the demon to be drunk, and if he was just being obnoxious, then that was even more infuriating.

Said demon was definitely not drunk, at least on anything but serotonin. Crowley stopped mid-step in his rather self-satisfied swagger, his grin spreading at the sight of his angel. Aziraphale, even in his own state, could see how manically fast the other’s thoughts were going. The mischievous glee emanating off of him only added to Aziraphale’s overstimulation.

“I got this cat-calling prick good, angel,” the demon began, too excited to note that Aziraphale was not smiling. “Made him fall right on his arse. It was brilliant,” he continued his verbal preening with a cocky wobble of his head, his grin so big that his fangs were glinting in the dim light. “Should’ve been there, you would’ve loved it. Got what he deserved, bit of knock to the hubris for ‘em.”

Crowley’s hand patting his shoulder caused the angel to flinch and shrink away. Aziraphale grasped the worn hem of his vest to stop himself from flinging his hands back, trying to hide his discomfort even if he had already all but tore himself away from his companion.

“What’s gotten into you?” the demon asked, having clearly not expected to come home to an upset angel, visibly deflating. He must have been having such a good day too.

_Like a lead balloon,_ Aziraphale’s mind supplied unhelpfully as Crowley even made a little squeak of confusion. However, the demon’s sudden deflation did nothing to satisfy the need to lash out. The words were coming out before Aziraphale could stop them. “Nothing, except for a certain demon being incredibly loud and obnoxious.” It was childish, he knew, but there was no biting back the words now, even if the angel’s face squinched up in the way it did when he wanted to immediately apologise about something. “I’m here, trying to work, and you nearly break down my door because of the apparent hilarity of some silly prank!”

The demon’s expression soured into a scowl, his brow knitting together and shoulders rising up like the protective coils of his serpentine form. “Sorry that I was excited ‘bout something other than,” even behind the glasses, it was obvious that he was eying the broom, “sweeping… apparently.”

Crowley gave a sniff of derision, but then froze, his breath exhaling in an angry hiss. “Were they here? Did they threaten you? Are you hurt?” he suddenly demanded, rounding on the angel.

“Who?” Aziraphale asked, taking a step back as the conversation turned on its head, leaving him far behind. At least in part. His eyes glanced up to give away he knew who ‘who’ were.

“Don’t lie to me, not about this,” Crowley tore his glasses from his nose, fully serpentine eyes scanning the shelves, every muscle of his lean frame tense.

The sharp tone made the angel jerk, the tears blurring his eyes once more. “Crowley,” he started earnestly but grumpily, “I am not lying to you.”

“You’re radiating distress,” the demon said anxiously, all but stalking around Aziraphale, “and you’re doing that thing, that thing where you keep yourself still because of what the other angels will think of you.” Crowley reached to grab Aziraphale’s hands, to gently pry them from the cloth without thinking.

“There are _no_ angels here,” Aziraphale swallowed down the wobble in his voice, but unable to choke down the shaky vexation, “just a demon, shouting at me and touching me. Nearly taking the door off the hinges.” His hands ripped away from his best friend as the light touch stung. “I was being an old silly, that’s all. I spooked myself. Nothing more.”

Another step back pressed Aziraphale’s back against a bookshelf. Even if he trusted Crowley over anyone else in Creation, the wood against his spine set off the primal instinct of being cornered. His hands curled up against his chest, quivering from the effort of not succumbing to the wrath building in his lungs.

There was still trepidation in the demon’s gaze, and it should have softened the angel, should have made it easier to come back to reality to care for the being he loved most. He couldn’t.

“You were going into a meltdown,” Crowley said flatly once he was beginning to cotton onto the situation, his eyebrows going up as high as they could go once he understood. Aziraphale would have thought it impossible for more air to escape the thin rail of Crowley’s form, but he deflated even further.

“Yes, I rather believe I was,” the angel shook himself lightly, as if it would unruffle his feathers, still tucked away on the other plane. Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale did his best to gather what remnants of control he had. He teeth were still grinding against each other, but his clasped his hands in front of him. “I believe I need to go take a walk, I’d rather not be cross with you further.” The tone was an attempt at proper, but it was false, lifeless. It wasn’t Crowley’s fault, after all, that he had worked himself into a tizzy.

Desperate to get away before he could say anything else he didn’t mean, Aziraphale turned towards the door, though was promptly stopped by the demon’s voice, so soft that it ached, “You don’t have to hide your stims from me, angel. Yeah? You know I love watching you express yourself.”

“Right now, I can’t,” the angel admitted, not turning back to look at Crowley. “I don’t know how to explain it, I just… need air, my dear.”

“Be safe, angel.”

Aziraphale did his very best not to limp as he turned towards the door, to make it look less like a retreat. “You just kip on the sofa, I’ll be back when my head’s clear,” he added at the door. Having Crowley fret that had driven the angel out of his own shop would not do. He had only added to the stress, not caused it. “Maybe I’ll get you a coffee on the way home, dear, just like you like it.” Hopefully, the peace offering would be understood. There should have been a peck to the demon’s forehead, but the angel feared that he might not have the will to leave the bookshop if he did.

The cool air hit the angel in the face, not cold enough for breath to fog, but coaxed towards the spectrum of uncomfortable by the wind that galloped down the streets, pinkening exposed cheeks. And, of course, Aziraphale had forgotten his coat. Because, of course he had.

Whether it be some interference from a penitent Crowley, or just the general air that the bookshop-owner-shaped-angel was exuding, the streets of Soho were emptier than was entirely natural, and those who did cross Aziraphale’s path kept their quiet distance.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure where he was going, or how far, with his aching leg, but the movement emptied his mind. He kept his hands fussing over his vest, his chest rising and falling in measured breaths.

It was so easy to feel tiny in London, even for the angel, his corporation small and insignificant among the great mass of humanity and their cleverness. Sometimes, that could be a blessed sensation. No notable eyes vivisecting Aziraphale like an insect, nothing cornering him.

He made it another three blocks, not far from a café that both he and Crowley were partial to, before his knee decided to give another, nastier crack, forcing him to a halt. The cold was stiffening the muscles, even with his walking. The thought of teleporting himself home because the damned thing pinkened his cheeks more than the wind had.

Cars hummed and took their busy owners on their way, muted conversations floating back to his ears, far enough away for his brain not to pick up words but simply the vibrations of speech. If he really focused, each soul was like a warm beacon of light around him, just visible through the celestial eyes that he often kept closed for the sake of his own sanity. They danced in their own galaxies like fireflies in a darkened field, some sharper, brighter than others.

Without thinking, his hands reached out just a tad, blindly, mentally brushing against the spikier souls to soothe, the dimmer to brighten. Little miracles, calming thoughts. Easy work, but it settled the angel, the tension in his soul easing and everything but those fiery spheres fading away into the inconsequential. Moments like this made Her Grace all the more tangible, flooding him with soft light as his essence brushed against the clever rays of humanity. It was like cupping heated water against skin, softened with soothing salts, each miracle a small rivulet or drop between his fingers. The only bit of the material world that he could hear was the soft, even beating of his own heart, keeping him tied to his body. And the ache of his leg.

Being so immersed in his true self sparked rawer pain from the infernal wound that had once cleaved a good portion of his leg apart, but it was easier to handle like this, distracted as he was by Grace and twinkling warmth.

Something suddenly barreled into his corporeal form, dragging his soul back into reality. Thrown off balance from the collision and disoriented from the unanticipated rush back into his form, the angel staggered into the wall with a peeved huff.

“Excuse me!” he harrumphed, opening his physical eyes to catch whoever had so rudely knocked into him. It wasn’t as if he had been in the way, as against the wall as he had been.

The stink of mildew and decay hit the angel’s nose as he caught sight of the dingy tan coat. His instincts were screaming something at him, but it only made sense when he was suddenly meeting black eyes and greyish, sallow skin. A hand shoved him back against the wall, his aching leg threatening to buckle from the force.

“And who might you be?” Aziraphale demanded, not at all pleased to have the back of his head connect to the brick behind him. He knew full well, of course. The coarse, swamp-stained white hair and pustule-ridden frog would have made it obvious even without the stench of rot. It was just that he would rather not have the Duke of Hell ask him how he knew. For now, playing dumb sounded like a brilliant idea. Not that any other plan was forthcoming.

“So you’re Crowley’s little pet angel,” Hastur snarled, his lips curling in disgust, “Prince Beelzebub said you were a fussy little prick.”

Ruffling at the words and doing his best not to flinch at the rotting hands gripping his shoulders, the angel put on the face of impatience that was typically saved for determined customers or Mafia.

“I believe Crowley made a deal with your Prince that he and I were to be left alone,” he pointed out. Oh, how the demon’s breath made him want to gag. The part of his mind still catching up with the situation wondered if the rot came from consistent time in Hell or if the demon had picked up his corporation out of a bog somewhere.

“Yeah, with the Prince, wouldn’t say us dukes had much say in the matter,” the rank demon growled, looking the angel up and down in a predatory sort of way that made it feel as if fingers were brushing across the angel’s skin, searching for his softest parts. Every bit of Aziraphale wanted to curl into a ball to rid himself of it.

“Well, yes,” started Aziraphale, hating how his voice shook, “but ze is your superior, are ze not?”

A hand grasped hard into the angel’s curls, yanking upwards, forcing Aziraphale to meet those pit-like eyes once more. He could have called the grin that Hastur gave ‘dim-witted’ if he hadn’t been staring at it through the tears caused by the furious pain in his scalp. Only standing on his tip-toes kept a sizeable chunk of hair from being ripped from skin.

“Even your lot believe in retribution, don’t they? ‘An eye for an eye’? Eh?” The hand shook Aziraphale with much more strength than a human ever could, threatening his balance.

“Not quite to that effect, but they’re not really ‘my lot’ anymore,” Aziraphale countered with only one gasp for air. His eyes glanced upwards, knowing that he was very much alone. Some innate sense made his fingers clench into fists, it taking everything to keep the training of a principality, created for battle, to keep hidden away. He was very aware that causing a scene would only put humans in danger. He was rather tired of the idea of collateral damage.

If he could get home to Crowley without bloodshed at all… that would be preferrable. Even if he himself had to ‘take his limps’ as he had heard Crowley say before when describing the violent societal norms of hell.

“Your slimy boyfriend,” Hastur was one to call anyone ‘slimy,’ “is a murderer of one of his own kind. Did he tell you that? Or were you where he got the Holy Water?” Stained teeth inhumanly wider. Aziraphale was never going to smoke a cigarette again. “’Bet it was you.”

The expression soured without pretense and Aziraphale could feel the vibration of demonic power rising in the other, tingling his skin like the charge of coming lightning. He choked back his own power. If he could just move, just enough to teleport away….

The hand released Aziraphale hair, making him slump against the wall. He was only dimly aware of the demon stepping back, glancing towards Aziraphale’s favoured limb, before a leg kicked out, the flat bottom of the boot connecting with his knee. A sharp crack met Aziraphale ears just before the pain that sent him to the pavement.

Cold sweat pooled in the small of his back, creeping on his spine as the edges of his vision dimmed. His own hand covered his mouth to keep himself from screaming, not willing to draw attention. This wasn’t an interrogation. There was no sign that the demon was about to drag him back to hell. This was more like a caning, nothing more than retaliation for misdeeds. He could take that. Had before. Heaven knows that Crowley had surely felt worse.

If his Grace had been warm water before, it was boiling now, ready to strike down the demon before him, to start that pointless War with a skirmish. His leg seared, as if it had been cleaved open anew, only further shaking his grip over himself. He was a bookseller in Soho, partner to the Serpent of Eden. The pacifist exiled for his own pacifism.

Before he could cling to the wall enough to stand, another blow to the head sent him back to the ground, the heel of the boot grounding his forehead into the coarse grit of pavement. The entirety of his body was trembling, his ears ringing as he crumpled. His wings strained to materialise into the world, to bat away the attacker, but they would only be at risk, one more thing to break.

A hiss, one from a great serpent, mixed with the ringing in Aziraphale’s ears. The already dim, blurred light of the sun was blotted out from above as a familiar wave of demonic energy surrounded him, like a coil of scales brushing against skin.

A howl of a curse stabbed into the angel’s throbbing head as the heel of the boot pressed harder before being quickly removed from its place, allowing the crumpled figure to wobble back upright.

Crowley. Or what could only be Crowley. The golden eyes were tinged with vicious red, matching his fiery hair. It was nothing like the silly form he had used to frighten that human all those months ago. No useless, haphazardly jutting bottom fangs for one. This was the incorporeal melding with corporeal, taking Crowley’s every angle and line, and making it deadly. His wings flared out behind him, his frenzied energy coursing around each feather. Aziraphale’s stinging eyes could just make out the line of his broken, empty halo.

No matter how malevolent he might look, his demon was not a fighter. Claws and fangs, wet with venom, were met with brute force, force honed for millennia to cause pain. Crowley lashed out towards Hastur’s face with another inhuman hiss, but the other stepped to the side, kicking out as Crowley’s ribs as he overbalanced.

“Though you’d come running if I messed with your pet,” Hastur chuckled.

Winded by the blow, the Serpent of Eden had all but curled into a ball, back exposed to the other. The kindness and warmth that had been so visible that gaze recently was gone, replaced with rage. “Hasturrrr….” the name was growled like a curse, Crowley’s fangs bared.

Aziraphale still sat sprawled, leg at a very unfortunate angle and his whole body frozen at the sight of Crowley, in fear of what would happen if he moved.

“Now, I gave Crowley the Holy Water,” the angel said through his teeth. “He only used it in the way that I asked him to.” He silently thanked the Almighty that his voice was stronger than he felt. Though, in the moment, he felt very little at all, except the wrath twisting in his belly. Everything else was happening to someone else. “Such retribution should be paid to me. Not him.” His hands moved to straighten his tie, hoping that the feigned nonchalance would only infuriate the foul-smelling Hastur.

There was a flash of fear, the first sign that Crowley had even recognised the entirety of the situation. It nearly floored Aziraphale, momentarily taking his breath. The angel tightened his barriers around himself, both so Crowley could not sense his fear, and because they were crumbling, and if they crumbled… he wasn’t quite sure what was going to happen next.

“Yeah, but Crawly’s more fun,” Hastur said with a shrug, hand moving to grip the other demon by the hair.

Crowley twisted, fangs millimetres from the other’s throat, his entire body contorting in a way that a corporeal form should not. There was a flash of heat, the flare of wings, and a swell of demonic energy. All Aziraphale could do was send away humans within a two-block radius much farther away.

The flames barely licked at Aziraphale’s arms and face, but the second of contact was like being in a brazen bull. As it took his breath, he felt his body pulled backwards by an invisible force. Away from the heat. Then, Crowley screamed.

The horrific sound made Aziraphale see red. Hastur’s neck frothed with potent venom, but had no blood to bleed, imprints of Crowley’s hands and claws seared into his putrid flesh. He slammed the half-serpent against the wall, Crowley’s wings crushed between himself and the brick, the toes of his boots just grazing the pavement as the other demon held him by the head, thumbs pressing into his eye sockets.

“You’re a fool, Crawly. ‘Should know better than goin’ against a Duke of Hell,” the amphibian demon spat, smoke sizzling from the pads of his fingers, making Crowley thrash. “Maybe we oughta test the Holy Water again, see what a drop does to those eyes.” The wicked smile all but split the demon’s face in half, a maggot wiggling from his lip, “or that silver tongue. Eh?”

Every iota of reserve left Aziraphale at the words, air freezing in his lungs. Everything was so vibrant, so bright, too bright. The world turned on its axis as a metaphysical plane met the physical. The spectrum seen by the human eye merging with the expanse of the Other. Souls twinkled around them.

Every nerve was on fire as he used the wall to lift himself upright, bones snapping back into their place. But it was distant, happening to someone else. Aziraphale was not even sure he was properly in his body anymore. His sword arm grasped at energy from the ether, ripping it down into reality, growing weighted and burning, only solid because he imagined it to be. Like a good sword ought to be. Closing his eyes to gather himself, Aziraphale let out a breath, rolling his shoulders and neck. He had a role to play, one that he hasn’t in a very long time, but he believed he still knew his part.

“What the Heaven?” Hastur swiveled to look at the principality, hands allowing the other demon to collapse to the ground. Crowley recoiled, curling up on himself, using his jacket to cover his face against the onslaught of angelic energy, wings creating a cocoon around him.

“ _I do suggest that you beat a hasty retreat_ ,” Aziraphale stated calmly, the words vibrating between the planes, his wings spreading behind him. All of it was so far away and yet in the centre of his very soul. Too much and too little all at once. If he had been fully in control of his faculties, he would have likely been screaming. All of it pulsed with the beat of his heart, throbbed at the base of his skull.

There had been no corporeal forms in the War, and Aziraphale was beginning to understand why. He remembered the sight of Sandalphon in Sodom, the stout man-shaped being, impossibly bright. Innumerable eyes to See the wicked. His essence all but bursting from his corporation. There to flicker out those brilliant lights below. It would have been so easy for the tide tugging and surging into his Grace to overwhelm him, but Crowley was there, and humans, only streets away. He could never forgive himself.

The angel’s free hand brushed over the flame-like blade, making it glow all the brighter. An image of a claw-foot tub, filled with seemingly innocuous water flashed in his mind. The sensation of Crowley’s fear, of the nightmares. His tears were cool as they ran down his face, his expression blank.

As dumb as Hastur, Duke of Hell, could be, he was apparently also a coward. He squeaked as the angel took a step towards him, raising his hands in defeat.

“ _I also suggest that you remind anyone with a grudge, be them from Heaven or Hell, that we are free of you and are to be left alone. We’ll tend to our business and leaves yours alone, as long humans or the Almighty’s Creation are not collateral damage. If She wants this to cease existing, then She can tell me in person.”_

When the slimy demon did not immediately turn heel, Aziraphale adjusted his stance, squaring his shoulders. Even now, the idea of killing anything was repulsive. The thought that this demon could have been what Crowley had become, that if he admitted that Crowley must still be loved by the Almighty, then this heinous bit of rotting flesh surely had his own place: then even smiting such a rancorous demon should not be taken lightly. After all, Hastur was there for judgement, for the settling of a death. Would Aziraphale had done the same if it had been Crowley caught by the Holy Water? In an instant.

Hastur’s dark eyes glanced between Crowley and the bright form of Aziraphale, one hand moving to shield his face from the burning. Then, his eyes fell to the ethereal sword, lips pulling down in a grimace. The tiniest of nods gave his agreement.

“Not worth my time anyway,” the demon huffed before sinking into the pavement.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now, we get the fluff, after we get broken limbs!

Chapter 2

There were a tense few moments were the angel waited. Waited for anything or nothing at all to happen, too afraid to let go. But there was no lightning, no figures rising from the pavement. There was absolutely no sign of some trap laid for the both of them. Slowly, he let his stance waver and then drop, his wings drooping at his side.

Aziraphale grimaced as the remaining divine energy drained from his body, blinking a few times in a futile effort to rid himself of the angelic equivalent of a migraine that always came with pulling so much from Heaven. The blood from his head wound didn’t help matters, only noting now how it burned his right eye. Releasing such power, the few times he had ever had to do it, always made him feel like a cracked egg, spilling out its yolk, in reverse. Where his essence had seeped through the seams of his physical form, it was retreating back inside, releasing him from the sense of disassociation. So very slowly. He was vaguely aware that he was swaying where he stood.

The burning blade faded into nothingness once more. His fingers were immediately scrubbing against his vest to quell the sensation the magic had left behind. Oh, he had forgotten how empty his chest felt after using so much energy.

Dithering on the spot, the angel forced himself to reach out once more, to make sure that none of those brilliant human sparks had come too close. No one had. Good. He took in a shaky breath before closing those sets of eyes and letting his wings shift back into the other plane. To be honest, he wasn’t sure he could cope with Seeing with anything more than the eyes in his skull at the moment. Pinching the bridge of his nose did little to help as he continued to let himself settle back into his corporation.

“My dear…?” Aziraphale started in a murmur, lifting his head back up, having assumed that Crowley had circled over to his side as was his wont. He hadn’t.

The demon was still on the ground, curled up as he had been. Only his shock of red hair was visible between feather and coat. There was no smell of burnt flesh, thankfully, but now that Aziraphale focused, he could hear Crowley’s erratic breathing. Ah.

“We’re safe, darling,” Aziraphale promised despite the shakiness of his own voice. A quick wave of his hand made sure others would find something else to do for awhile longer. It wasn’t his most brilliant idea, given how the cold chill ran up his spine once more, but he had other things to worry about. Even exhausted, the angel was good at fretting.

Had he hurt Crowley? He had done his very best to keep himself in control, but perhaps he had miscalculated. He could never forgive himself if he had. Or had seeing the quaint bookseller practically bursting at the seams with divinity trigger something?

“Crowley?” Aziraphale winced as he took a step closer to his demon, hand going to his knee. The hurried setting of bones and the divine mixing with infernal had certainly made it rather livid at him now. If the very thought of miracling anything right now didn’t make him lightheaded, he would have been tempted to miracle up a cane for himself. As it was, he just had to make do. “Can you look at me?”

Another step was made, but he stopped as Crowley recoiled. There wasn’t any clear indication of where it was from fear, pain, or anger, but the angel obeyed it all the same. Instead of invading the other’s space, Aziraphale grunted as he lowered himself to the pavement with the help of the wall, legs resting straight out and hands in his lap. The angel was fairly sure that if he laid his head back right there, he could have napped. Even with the desperate need for the seclusion of his shop. He also wasn’t sure that he could get back up without help now that he was down. However, he would be as patient as Crowley needed him to be. Remembering the breathing exercises that had helped before, the angel audibly breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth.

There was a wan smile waiting for the demon when he finally shifted closer.

“Do you know where you are?” the angel asked tentatively, his smile widening as he received a nod.

“Did I harm you?” came the next question. Aziraphale did his best to keep his tone light, as if asking Crowley his opinion on a pastry.

The subsequent shaking of Crowley’s head made the angel give a sigh of relief.

“Good. Now, may I take your hand?”

The hand that inched slowly out of the mass of feathers could have been more accurately described as a paw. Long, scaled fingers were tipped with great, black talons, but they were just as gentle as always as they intertwined with the angel’s own manicured digits.

Oh. An inkling of understanding crept into Aziraphale’s thoughts, a drunken conversation, half forgotten. Yellow eyes, always shielded.

“Crowley, dear, you don’t have to hide from me,” the angel assured, stroking his thumb over Crowley’s knuckles, “You’re you no matter what form you take.”

“’M stuck,” came the panicked words, in little more than a whine, “’m stuck like this.” An iridescent wing, feathers crumpled and lightly singed, pressed closer to hide the demon. Only then did the angel notice how he favoured his left wing, the muscles quivering lightly.

Slowly, waiting for his demon to give any sign of rejection, Aziraphale scooted closer, free hand moving to tend to the injured limb. To refute Crowley’s claims would only get him to think about the possibility all the more, and the demon did have a very powerful imagination. So, best not to comment lest the poor boy actually did get himself stuck like this. He also knew better than to directly praise Crowley for coming to his aid. It was much better, and easier, to distract. There was no blood, but such fragile bones were not meant to be slammed into walls. Sitting down, little miracles were relatively simple.

He gently rezipped dislodged barbs across the other’s primaries and secondaries, using his nails to lightly remove any charred edges. The continued scent of burnt feathers would do nothing for Crowley’s emotional state or pride. “I’m sorry for being so cross this afternoon,” the angel said as he worked, his eyes kept on his work. “Now, we’ll get through this and go home, then I’ll make some tea. Take deep breaths for me. That’s it.”

The dark scales that armoured the stop of Crowley’s hand slowly regressed as the other calmed. Panting breaths and subtle sounds of distress slowly tapered off. When the demon peeked out from behind his wing, there was still a hint of the long ventral scutes down his throat and smaller coin-sized scales around his jaw and temple. Only the smallest indentations about his lips showed where his labial pits had been previously. Those slit pupils were still dilated, a smidge of red still to be seen. In the next few hours, there was sure to be the imprints of Hastur’s hands across his demon’s face. There was no blood on his face either, but there were tear tracks that ran down to the base of his chin.

“There you are,” Aziraphale hummed fondly, only glancing to Crowley before focusing back on the wings.

Crowley did not smile back, however, gaze focused firmly above the angel’s eyes, fingers moving to brush the bloodied skin. Aziraphale felt the briefest tingle of infernal magic against his flesh.

“I’m afraid I look like quite a mess, but I’m perfectly fine,” he assured the demon.

“You _snapped_ your knee back into place,” Now that Crowley was looking at him, there was stunned disbelief in his gaze. “What in Heaven were you thinking?” The admonishment was rather flat and breathless, the poor demon, like the angel, still in a state of shock.

“That I couldn’t let that monster gouge out your lovely eyes,” Aziraphale said fastidiously.

Instead of answering with anything intelligible, Crowley pressed his face against the angel’s shoulder, getting his point across with a series of syllables and grunts that could have been mistaken for a sentence.

“Pardon?”

“Bastard.”

Aziraphale could not help but to give a drained smirk. “Now, do you have it in you to get us home, dear? I’m afraid I’m not sure I can get up without help, and my bottom is slowly going to sleep.”

One blink and they were still sitting on the pavement, and then next, they were on the couch in the back room. Crowley’s wings were folded back away and Aziraphale no longer felt sticky with blood and sweat. He let out a sigh of delight, hands smoothing down his cleaned clothing. “Thank you, my dear.”

A grunt came in answer, and then an armful of demon, the weighted blanket that had recently taken up position on the back of the sofa being draped over the two of them. The scales were not entirely gone yet from Crowley’s face. Aziraphale’s thumb brushed over a larger one at the base of the other’s jaw, reveling in the smooth coolness of it.

“You gonna tell me what had gotten you so upset?” Crowley finally asked once the pair had settled, his head lifting just enough to look at Aziraphale’s face.

“Oh, it was just me being silly,” Aziraphale huffed. He was rather miffed with himself and understood if Crowley was too.

“It’s not silly if it’s upset you,” Crowley said seriously, earning a disgruntled look from the angel when he sat up, removing his weight. “Not to mention it nearly got you discorporated.” There was a tremulous edge to Crowley’s voice, “If I hadn’t felt you were in trouble…. I know, bloody hell, I saw today that you can take care of yourself, s’not about that, it’s… I can’t find you dead somewhere. I can’t. ‘Was afraid… ‘was afraid I was going to. Again…. We rowed and I let you leave and….”

“I am right here,” Aziraphale promised, “and it was silly, I….” Pausing, the angel gathered himself. There was that weaponised obliviousness again, circumventing the real conversation, only giving Crowley more reasons to doubt. “In six millennia, I’m sure you’ve seen the scar on my knee. Usually it only hurts in Heaven, you may have even felt it when we switched, but sometimes it gets fussy over nasty weather. I’m sure you’ve felt the cold coming too. Well, I was trying to work, and it was making it rather difficult and I was… I suppose I got a bit tetchy. It’s just that it is so easy to feel like they’re,” a glance upwards, “watching, and, well… as I said, it’s all a bit silly.”

There was a pause, Crowley’s eyes on where their hands had not left each other’s. “You don’t have to work like that anymore, angel,” he finally stated. “You don’t have to let yourself hurt. If they are watching, then they have to get through me to touch you, just like you protected me from Hastur.”

“I don’t think I…” Aziraphale stopped as Crowley held up a finger to shush him.

“Nuh, uh, lemme finish. Those arseholes can’t touch you, they can’t. I won’t let them,” there was a knowing look in Crowley’s eyes, “but that’s not all that’s got you worked up, is it? Fear of archangels doesn’t require you to go through two hundred years’ worth of knickknacks, and I know you, you don’t go through paperwork on a whim.”

So, he was caught. Unwilling to let go of Crowley’s hand, he straightened the knee of his trousers with his free hand, not daring to look at the other. “I was rather hoping it would make things easier,” he admitted.

“What d’you mean?”

“I mean. Oh, I hadn’t had the nerve to ask you. I didn’t know what to say. So many routes. So many. I didn’t know if you’d be angry, or immediately attach yourself to the idea, and… it was just too much. So, I thought that if I started on it, got all of my things sorted, it would be easier, but it hadn’t. I thought I could at least do the sweeping, but even that was too much,” Aziraphale was fully aware that he was rambling, not that he could get his mouth to ever stop once it had started. The hand went back to the knee for a third time that the angel had noticed, just tugging at this point.

“Okay, we gotta slow down, I’ve missed something,” Crowley said gently, taking the fretting hand and squeezing it, not hard enough to hurt, but enough pressure for Aziraphale to focus on. “You were doing something to the bookshop, trying to clean things out, over something that I would either be really excited about or angry, sound about right?” The demon waited for Aziraphale to correct him before continuing, “This thing, it involved going through all your things, taking books out of your orders, and cleaning, and it’s got you stressed to the point that you feel like you can’t take a break even when you’re in pain.”

Aziraphale nodded.

“One, nothing you want to do for me is worth you putting yourself through pain. You wouldn’t ask that of me, and I wouldn’t of you. You and I have had enough of that over six thousand years. Also as a snake with limbs and hips who did a belly flop into a pool of sulfur, I get there’s days when things just get pissed off because of a bit of rain.” Thumbs rubbed Aziraphale’s knuckles in unison. “Two, I highly doubt I’ll be against anything you wanna do, unless it’s gonna hurt one of us. Is it?”

The angel hesitated, not sure how to answer that, not sure if the other meant physically or mentally.

“Physically,” Crowley corrected, seeing the problem, “Well, mentally too, but we can talk that out, yeah?”

“No, it won’t.”

“There then,” Crowley lightly plopped himself back down against Aziraphale’s side, his lazy smile only looking a bit nervous. “Spit it out, if you want. Only one route right now, and we’ll get to a crossroads if we get to one.”

Aziraphale glanced at Crowley’s expectant face, nerves still threatening to make him lose his words. At least, the words he wanted to say. Oh, today had been so much already. “It’s just that I’ve noticed how, since the world was supposed to end, since the bookshop burned, it hasn’t been quite the same for either of us. I wanted it to be, and so much… happiness has filled this place over the years. But, I see the way you look at it sometimes, like it’s still on fire. Or your nightmares. I look up at the door when I hear the bell jingle, afraid that they have come for one of us.” Looking at their hands once more, he continued, “I think some part of me made this place as a haven for the both of us, like a nest, and I… oh, I hate to think about leaving it, but it’s not getting any better, Crowley.”

When Crowley did not immediately respond, the angel floundered over a better explanation, one he had practiced a few times over the past months, “Those books I read talked about things that trigger bad memories or emotions. I was wondering if a change in location might give us time to heal. Maybe not get rid of the shop entirely, perhaps using it to store lesser books of my collection, but…. I was imagining someplace by the sea, maybe a cottage. You could have a garden, and enjoy the sun. It would be quiet, and I think rather lovely.” The angel felt heat rising up his face, not daring to look at Crowley now. “I mean, I know you have your flat, and we don’t have to. It’s just that I’ve not seen you watch any television, or listen to your radio, and I know it’s because you don’t feel safe either, and you deserve it, oh so much.”

A very soft sensation on Aziraphale’s lips shut him up. At first, he wondered if Crowley had kissed him to get him to stop ranting, but it had merely been the brush of a clawless finger against his bottom lip. Still, it got the angel to turn towards the demon, whose surely sore eyes were glinting cheekily.

“Is an angel tempting me to move into a cottage with him?” he asked past a smirk, though Aziraphale could sense between them that questioning uncertainty, that need to be sure. “With the sea, and a garden, and little old ladies as neighbors?”

“I rather suppose I am,” Aziraphale answered shyly.

Crowley hummed warmly, laying his head back to look at the angel upside down. “I suppose I can’t say ‘no’ to that good of a temptation.”

“Oh, you serpent,” Aziraphale groused, doing his best to look annoyed even as his heart was surely about to fly out of his chest.

There was a hint of fang in Crowley’s smile before he turned a bit more pensive. “We’ll take it at your pace, your time.”

“If you allowed me all the time in the world, my dear, I may dither here until the next end of it,” Aziraphale admitted.

“I know, I get that,” the demon said kindly, “didn’t say I wasn’t gonna coax, but if this is gonna be a good thing, you can’t work yourself to tears. Alright? You work all you want, with my help, then I’ll tempt you to lunch and stuff when you need a break.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale was not expecting his voice to crack, but it did, only then realising the new tear dripping down his face.

Crowley wiped away the offending tear and for the first time since they arrived back home, both of them lowered their barriers once more, the warmth and affection from his demon filling Aziraphale’s chest. The other’s hand moved down to the angel’s knee, perhaps sensing the still present discomfort, and started rubbing, the contact cool and strong.

Both angel and demon settled in, the demon readjusting the weighted blanket around their shoulders, making sure that his toes were tucked firmly under the bottom of the angel to make them nice and warm. If he clung a tiny bit closer to the angel than the night before, the angel had the grace not to mention it. And if the angel closed his eyes and answered the question of if angels were capable of snoring, then the other though it was too cute to stop.


End file.
